"Ugh, so annoying…"
Russell slumped down into his chair, watching the countdown in his field of view tick down, second by second.
"What does it even mean to announce in advance that the next target is the princess living in Buckingham Palace?"
Do you see me as a phantom thief, wearing white clothes, a hat, and a monocle—or just as a normal black-haired transfer student living with a talking cat in the attic?
He suddenly regretted his decision. Why was he so agitated right now? People can barely relate to themselves even just a few minutes earlier.
At least on the bright side, he still had seven days to prepare.
It's like the three general approaches to winter vacation homework. The first kind are those who start their assignments the very first day of break, finish everything at once, and enjoy the rest of the holiday stress-free.
The second type makes a detailed study plan on day one, steadily completing a little every day, finishing all the tasks calmly.
The third type doesn't care about the passage of time; to them, the deadline isn't a wall—it's motivation. On the last night before school starts, by a single lamp and a cup of strong tea, they pull off miracles that even surprise themselves, thanks to adrenaline and a burst of inspiration.
Russell Watson was definitely the third type.
But this time, unlike before, he couldn't just slack off for a few days then pull an all-nighter to finish up.
He still had plenty of prep work to do first.
Buckingham Palace was no ordinary Kensington manor; he couldn't enter and leave as he pleased.
Therefore, when the time came, he'd have to rely on some rather astonishing tools.
To buy magical items, he needed magic currency.
His gaze dropped to his balance—1,370.
This was more than enough if he just wanted to shop in a high-class neighborhood for free.
But even if he went to Buckingham Palace, with this amount of malice it would barely allow him to enter as a tourist.
Clearly, making money was the priority.
First, he needed to accumulate a sufficient amount of malice.
Russell stared up at the ceiling, mentally estimating how much malice he'd need for this operation.
[Teleport Anchor Point]: Cost, 1,000. If he set one on Baker Street first, and another after infiltrating Buckingham Palace, that would be a total of 2,000.
The Ghost Hand costs 500. He'd need a few Mist Array escapes for emergencies, plus miscellaneous item expenses... All together, it'd run him close to 3,000. Just thinking about it made his wallet ache.
But if he succeeded, that 3,000 would come right back to him.
After all, you can't catch the wolf without risking the cub.
Russell sat up on his bed, pacing around his room as he mentally sifted through all the potential ATMs.
Coincidentally, London's upper-class aristocrats and wealthy have been brooding over Lloyds Bank all day lately, their motivation sapped.
Everyone feared Moriarty might expose their secrets.
As a model youth of the new era, naturally, Russell couldn't just ignore this.
Anxious? What are you anxious about? Don't worry—this is where I come in!
From now until business officially starts, every night he'd become London's good neighbor, helping worried nobles fearing exposure solve their problems.
"If the Times had any conscience, they'd build me a monument," Russell sighed. "I've carried over a dozen newspapers on my shoulders, big and small."
Time to get to work.
With just a whim, Russell's wallet balance of malice quickly began to drop. In return, a series of custom maps gradually emerged, vivid and clear, in his mind.
"Thank goodness the maps got upgraded," Russell remarked as he looked over his three-dimensional mental map. "Otherwise, I'd be running around everywhere for location scouting—way too tiring."
Mayfair, Kensington, Belgravia, Knightsbridge... these mapped out almost all of London's wealthy districts.
Each map represented both a scandal to rock London and a sizable revenue of malice.
"And then…" Russell's lips curled into a dangerous grin, like a shark scenting blood.
Who would tonight's lucky audience be?
…
Night descended, and the evening wind in Kensington carried an air of opulence and upper-class society.
Russell sat quietly on the rooftop of a manor, blending seamlessly into the night.
After running through it all day, he finally decided to start in Kensington—the area he knew best… to settle a little score.
Tonight's "beneficiary" was a jeweler named Hansen Bolay.
Ever since the Lloyds Bank incident, Hansen had been anxious, dreading exposure of his collusion with other appraisal institutions to forge certificates and pass off inferior goods as treasures. Each day brought mounting anxiety, robbing him of appetite and sleep.
Pitiful man.
But that's not a problem; as of today, he no longer needs to worry aimlessly about mere possibilities.
Because tomorrow's Times would report the facts.
Russell stretched, then vaulted off the rooftop.
With a light touch via his toes to a protruding window frame, he landed soundlessly on the balcony outside the second-floor study.
Intrusion complete.
Russell expected no real security at the Bolay residence. With his [Stealth B+], the place's defenses were no better than those in a "Dora's Big Adventure."
He withdrew a set of lockpicks from his pocket, and in less than ten seconds, the balcony door yielded like a tamed beast and gently returned to its frame.
Click.
With a barely audible snap, the door swung open.
The study was filled with the scent of old paper and cigars laced with alcohol.
The room was dark, but that didn't bother Russell.
Fortunately, the improvements from [Reconnaissance C++] applied not only to his perception but greatly enhanced his vision.
He walked easily behind the desk, idly scanning the surroundings, and quickly found the hiding place of incriminating evidence.
Atop the bookcase was a patch with noticeably less dust than the others.
That meant the corresponding book had been frequently accessed of late.
Russell stepped forward, reached for the thick Bible, and pulled it out.
Flipping through absentmindedly, he let his gaze fall on the contents recorded within.
No doctrine, no historical hints—just a stack of forged certificates for high-grade jewelry, customer information, and matching transaction records.
Russell let out a low whistle, tore out the page, and pocketed it.
Then he picked a pen off the table, and on a blank page wrote a conclusion and a signature.
Once done, he replaced the Bible and slipped out of the study.
It was as if he'd never been there at all.
…
Bonus chapter at 100 PS